Six Years
by savant sacrilege
Summary: Six years is a long time, you think...  But you're breathing.  Your heart is beating and everything is beautiful and you're alive.  You're finally home.


**Author's note: **Hello again, lovelies!

As I'm sure you can perhaps guess, this story is set after June 8, 2011's episode of South Park, _You're Getting Old_. I'm not worried about the series ending; South Park is said to still be under contract until 2013, but the episode did make me rather sad and I wanted to write something happy in relation to it.

Right, onto warnings! Well, to be quite honest, there aren't many. I know it's rather short, for one... Hm. But as far as real warnings go, there is some foul language, and a little homosexuality at the end. If either of those bothers you, feel free to exit. Oh, and again, this is not beta'd.

Disclaimer: I do not own nor am I in any way affiliated with South Park or its creators. The only thing that belongs to me is the story.

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><p><span>Six Years<span>

Six years passed. The seasons changed, and changed again, and every day for six years, you thought of nothing but him. His eyes, his hair, his voice… Everything.

You made friends at your new school. You dealt with your parent's divorce. Your sister graduated from high school and moved out, leaving you alone. Had you always been alone? Six years is a long time, you think. Six birthdays without your old friends, six birthdays without happily married parents, six birthdays looking through the eyes of a cynic.

On your sixteenth birthday, you received a car. A blue 1996 Honda Accord and it was, of course, a piece of shit. Everything was a piece of shit to you. That car could take you anywhere, though. New York, Las Vegas, Los Angeles… maybe a small, shithole town not far from you. It could go anywhere. The only thing it was missing was a driver, and you knew you could fill that hole perfectly.

Through the years, the ache in your chest grew stronger. In truth, it was always just a dull throb, but you knew what caused it. You knew you missed him. You knew you missed all of them. For six years, you longed for a normal life back in South Park; back where you belonged.

After you turned ten, you'd secretly hoped that the cynicism would pass. You knew you were being an asshole most of the time, but it wasn't something you felt you could help. Everything sucked, and you couldn't pull yourself out of the rut you'd fallen into. Part of you blamed your friends; they had all turned their backs on you and couldn't be bothered to help their prick friend. Underneath that all, however, you knew it was all you. You complained about everything. Big things, little things, things that didn't even involve you; it didn't matter. It was all shitty.

Now, at age sixteen, things still look shitty to you, but you're beginning to realize where you went wrong. Lying on your bed, looking up at your fan and contemplating life, much like you did six years ago, you know it was your fault. Not all of it; you couldn't help your parent's divorce. But everything else… Your friends leaving you, thinking everything sucked all the time, not seeing the beauty in everyday, mundane things… All of that was you.

So you get up, and you pull on a shirt. It's nearly midnight and snow is falling fast outside, but you can't care. You run your fingers through your hair before deciding you also don't care about looking decent, and instead pull on your old blue and red hat. You shove your feet into a pair of shoes, grab your keys, and sneak quietly out of the house.

In your car, you take a deep breath. You haven't been to South Park in six years, but the way to the town is engraved in your heart and you know what you need to do. You catch your own gaze in the rearview mirror. Nothing has changed; your skin isn't brighter, your eyes are still blue, and your hat is still resting haphazardly on your head, but you feel different, just a little. You smile to yourself and back out of the driveway.

You drive slowly, listening to the silence and hoping he hasn't moved to the other side of town or something. You think to yourself that the way the beams of your headlights are hitting the wide, glittering snowflakes is uncannily beautiful. Your gaze settles back on the street in front of you; this is possibly the longest drive you've ever driven.

Five miles to South Park, you begin to notice the cold a little more and silently wish you'd have worn a jacket. Again, you know that's your own fault, but you still cannot help but blame the shitty weather. You sigh and continue driving.

Finally, you cross the city limit and it's like you're at home again. As you make your way steadily to his house, you notice that not much has changed over the last six years. Your heartbeat begins to speed up when the dark green home comes into view, and for a split second, you consider turning around. But you keep your foot hovering over the gas pedal and the car continues to move forward until you are parked neatly in the Broflovski's driveway.

You flick the headlights off and rest back in the driver's seat, merely drinking in the sight of his house. Every light in the building is off except for the one in Kyle's bedroom. It is at that moment that you realize you have no way of getting inside. You don't know Kyle's cellphone number, or if he even has a cellphone, and you cannot call his house phone in fear of waking his parents. You cannot knock on the front door for the same reason and there is no way to climb up to Kyle's window.

And then, in a mild fit on spontaneity and, perhaps, desperation, you decide to toss rocks at the glass and hope that Kyle will hear it and not ignore you. So you exit your car and close the door quietly. You choose three medium-sized rocks and stand below Kyle's window.

Before you can change your mind, you quickly inhale and toss the first rock. It clicks soundly against the glass, and there is a very pregnant, very silent moment where your stomach twists in anticipation and a sweat breaks out on your palms. After what seems like forever, nothing has happened, so you toss the second rock. A silhouette makes its way to the curtains, and before they can part, you toss the last rock and stand with your hands behind your back and your chin tilted to the second story.

A face, painfully familiar and yet so, so different, appears in the window. You think Kyle's eyes widen, but you can't be sure from this distance, before he disappears yet again from the window and from your view. Your heart sinks. You wait, hoping Kyle is just coming downstairs to unlock the door and find out what you're doing here. Moments pass and you are just starting to think about what a shitty idea that is when you hear the faint _click_ of the front door unlocking, and suddenly, Kyle is there.

You two stare at each other for many minutes before either of you speak. The snow is still falling, and you are probably getting colder, but if you are, you don't notice it. Finally, he speaks.

"Stan?"

It's almost a whisper. His voice is predictably deeper and it's pleasant to listen to. After a moment of speculation, you remember he is attempting to address you and you nod.

Kyle looks behind him once before stepping outside and closing the door. He looks hesitant for a minute and then he's running forward, running towards you, and then thin, warm arms are wrapping tightly around your body. You act on pure instinct and wrap your arms around him, too, burying your face in his neck. You two probably look completely gay right now and you're aware that Kyle knows this, too, but you don't care. You don't care.

All you can focus on right now is that Kyle Broflovski is here, after six long years, hugging you and probably trying his damnedest not to cry, just like you are. You clutch at his shirt and he pulls away enough to look you in the face. He's gotten really handsome and his hair seems to have calmed down a bit over the years. His eyes are just as green and he's just as scrawny, but he's Kyle. _Kyle_, your super best friend from before you can remember. Kyle, who listened to every idea you ever had, who was your partner in every adventure you went on and every mess you ever got into. Kyle, who always came back to you whether it took six hours, six days, or six years. Kyle.

You touch his face and he touches yours, and it's not necessarily romantic, just reminiscing and relearning and everything you've wanted for the past six years but didn't know how to access. It's beautiful and raw and finally, you begin crying and Kyle does the same. You fall apart into each other's arms. For what feels like hours, the two of you stand there and hold each other, sobbing and breathing the other in.

Eventually Kyle pulls away and takes your hand, leading you inside. It feels good to be inside; the house is heated, just like it always was six years ago, and it smells the same as it always has. He leads you up to his room and closes the door behind you two, locking it and leaning against it to stare at you. You can feel your stomach twisting and you almost feel like you want to cry again, but you don't. Your eyes shift, looking around the room; there are textbooks open on Kyle's neatly-made bed and his floor is spotless. Everything looks clean and modern and utterly _Kyle._ And then you see it; there's a photo of he and you, age nine, on his bedside table. You both look so happy, so carefree and yet surprisingly wise about the world around you—

"I thought you'd dropped off the face of planet."

The words are spoken extremely quietly, but they catch your attention and bring you back to Kyle Broflovski, age sixteen. You swallow and you can't really think of anything to respond with, so instead, you apologize.

"I'm sorry for being such an asshole when we were ten."

There's the shadow of a smile on Kyle's face and he shakes his head.

"It's fine," he says, the quietest two words you've ever heard him utter. This time, you shake your head and walk to him. He's taller than you now; only by about an inch, but he's still taller. You look him in the eyes. Your faces are only a scant few inches apart and you really feel like you should kiss him, but you don't. You wonder if his favorite color is still green, if he still brushes off keeping kosher, if you're still his super best friend. Disregarding the fear of seeming incredibly gay, you lean your forehead against his collarbone and he removes your hat to run his fingers through your hair.

And then Kyle leans down and kisses your temple. You lift your head and look at him, and you see more uncertainty than you ever think you've seen on his face. So you lean forward, slowly, until your lips are a hairsbreadth from his. And then both your eyes and his are sliding closed until your lips are pressed together and it's the best moment of your life.

You're nine years old again in that moment. You know everything about the world and yet you still have so much to learn. You're breathing. Your heart is beating and everything is beautiful and you're _alive._

You're finally home.


End file.
